


Walking Wounded

by papersky_pencilstars



Category: Band of Brothers (TV 2001)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-19 07:35:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29871327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papersky_pencilstars/pseuds/papersky_pencilstars
Summary: Prompt:Canon-era; Either Gene or Babe have magic, or both. Maybe magic is known or maybe they need to hide it.
Relationships: Edward "Babe" Heffron/Eugene Roe
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17
Collections: Band of Brothers Love Fest 2021





	Walking Wounded

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [BandofBrothersLoveFest_2021](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/BandofBrothersLoveFest_2021) collection. 



He sees the sparks first in the snowy woods around Bastogne. He’s hunched knee to knee with the replacement in his foxhole, blowing on his fingers in a vain attempt to warm them up when a silver flash like a drop of mercury dribbles across his knuckles. For a moment, Babe thinks one of the flares the Boche periodically send up over their positions has ruined his night vision. He blinks hard, but the sparks persist, right in the center of his vision. He glances over to make sure the replacement hasn’t noticed anything off, but the kid looks far too miserable to pay attention to much of anything, nose buried in his collar.

Babe spreads out both hands in front of him, palms up. In the dark he can see tiny, silver flares burst to life, wriggling along the folds of his skin before fizzling out. He clenches his fingers into fists, aware of a tingling in his fingers, and in desperation shoves his hands into the trampled snow next to their foxholein an effort to quench them. The sparks flare brighter, leaping from his fingers and hissing as they strike the snow and disappear. He sleeps fitfully the rest of the night, holding a lump of melting snow in each hand. 

From then on, the sparks never really go away. They linger, shivering, on his fingertips when they go on patrol, or they drip down into the snow as he steadies his rifle before a firefight. For a long time he isn’t really sure if anyone else can see them, he spends a lot of time with his hands shoved into his pockets. No one thinks twice about that, they’re all desperately looking for any scrap of warmth they can find. Except him, Babe realizes after a few days, his hands don’t go numb anymore even when he’s been out on the OP all night, and his fingers are always deft and nimble even though the cold is makes the others shake and fumble simple tasks. They only shake when a shell bursts a little too close overhead.

Of all the people who might find out, he doesn’t expect it to be Roe. Maybe Bill, who’s always stopping at their foxhole, or the replacement Julian, who was really thrown into the deep end of this shit show. He’s not even sure if Roe knows him from the other guys in Easy, or if he’s just another body that will need to be patched up and sent back off the line some day. But the medic is quiet where others are loud, and still where others are not, and he sees things where others don’t.

The next time Gene goes into Bastogne he brings back a pair of scratchy mittens. The stitches are uneven, tight in some rows and almost loopy in others, and it brings a lump to Babe’s throat because it’s so clear someone with not a lot of experience put a lot of time and care into making these. At first he can’t bring himself to take them, because clearly these are knitted for someone loved, not some GI way out of his depth and longing for home, but Gene presses them into his chest.

“It’s better if they don’t find out.”

He has a tiny sun fastened at the center of his jump wings, and there are stories of others with the sun insignia; medics, snipers, officers blessed with the ability to pull off miracles. When Babe looks at Roe he’s not sure he sees miracles, just the weight of the world on those slender shoulders. Even he can tell the medic is bleeding himself dry to keep the men of Easy Co whole. It’s an impossible task, and worse, Roe knows it, but that doesn’t stop him from trying and trying. Babe takes the mittens.

“You don’t wear gloves.” He whispers

Roe wiggles his fingers, they look completely ordinary; long and slender with the nails bit down to the beds and knuckles red and cracked from the cold. “Nothing left to burn,” he gives Babe a fleeting, awry smile and slips off to continue his rounds.

They exchange scraps of secrets in whispers, always mindful of who’s in the foxholes next to them, who’s in the mess line, and who’s away on patrol but might come back at any moment. Roe’s been one of the blessed - he spits the word like a curse - since he was a teenager. The Cajuns call them blessés, wounded by God, no saying if someone misheard or chose to interpret it another way: Blessed be they who serve their country.

They’re less of a rarity in the bayou than the rest of the country, Roe was never caught not knowing what he was or what was happening to him, but when the Army came looking it was too late to hide who he was. They looked at his healing hands and saw a weapon as potent as any gun. Hard to say whether the gun is pointed at the enemy or at Roe himself, Babe wonders if the woods around Roe are full of the whispering dead, if he recognizes them, if that’s why he refuses to learn any of their names.

He’s on watch one night when the air’s so cold it glitters around them, Julian curled up shivering next to him trying to get some sleep. Babe has his mittens off, watching the sparks lick up and down the creases on his palms, he’s never bothered by the cold anymore, but he doesn’t like the tense look on Julian’s face as if he’s in pain. Slowly, carefully he reaches over to put a hand on Julian’s shoulder. For a moment the sparks flare up, and he’s afraid he’ll be caught, but then they seep into the stiff fabric under his fingers. He’s not sure this is something that can be shared, but it seems like Julian stops shivering. Babe spends the rest of the night keeping watch, he thinks this might be the first time Julian’s really slept since they got onto the line.

It’s as good a way as any to bleed his power, to share it with his friends. He tries to be subtle about it, patting Malarkey across the back when they’re laughing at a joke, or extending a hand to help McClung and Toye out of the OP trench. He’s careful not to do it around any of the officers, he trusts the others to keep their silence if they figure it out, and this way his hands don’t glow quite as much. In the dark he holds Roe’s hands between his palms and tries to bleed warmth back into the swollen fingers.

“It’s alright,” the medic tries to protest, eyes fever-bright in the moonlight, “you should save it.”

“For what?” Babe asks, “I’d rather give it to you.”

They go out Kraut hunting, and the world dissolves in gunshots and screams. The woods were a ruin of trampled snow and burnt trees by the time they pulled back, but Babe doesn’t even have any bloodstains on his sleeves. He should have blood on his hands, and burns on his fingers. He couldn’t get close enough to Julian to help or comfort him. All he could do was reach out uselessly and shout at him to hold on. He looks down at his clenched fingers, for once they look perfectly normal, the sparks burnt out of them. Every time he closes his eyes he sees the whip of light lash out from his palms, burning the trees and leaping towards the German position, melting the snow in front of him in a perfect arc. He sees Julian’s face and the faces of the men before his fire overtook them.

Only Roe is brave enough to get close, that night Gene holds him so tight he might be trying to meld them into one creature of shadow and light, cheeks pressed together, red and black hair mingling. He doesn’t cry, but Babe does, silently so only Gene notices the sobs shuddering through him. He’s not even sure if he’s crying for Julian or himself or the men he killed.

The next morning, he’s sent with Roe on his next supply run to Bastogne. He knows Winters did that on purpose, to give them both the chance to get behind the line and maybe get a hot meal, because they’re the ones he deems most on the edge of a break. He can understand the Captain’s concern for Roe, he’s not sure why Winters thinks he’s a priority. He’s been waiting for the summons from Battalion since the morning, but they still haven’t come. He knows Lipton tried to cover for them, but it’s only a matter of time now before they find out.

A young woman with a round face and her hair tucked into a blue headscarf comes out of the church where they’ve set up their field hospital and greets Roe, resting a hand gently on his sleeve. She looks about as tired and haggard as Babe feels, but she throws him a quick smile before rushing to help with the wounded paratrooper they brought with them.

“C’est l’ange de Bastogne.” Gene tells him as Babe follows him down the into the basement, not quite understanding the words or the meaning behind them. They watch the nurse get the man settled on a stretcher just above the filthy floor, she pauses a moment to smooth the sweaty hair out of his eyes, and he softens under her touch, a bit of the fear and pain going out of his eyes.

Babe turns to Roe, “You found another one.” It’s not a question, but Roe confirms with a slight nod, his eyes still on the nurse, “Does she know?”

“You weren’t here five minutes before you figured it out.” The nurse turns to them, motioning for them to follow her to an altar room stacked high with crates of supplies. Babe holds an empty box as Gene and the nurse fill it with new bandages and morphine, chattering away to each other in French. The box is full too fast, and there’s not enough to spare to start a new one. In the pause they come to stand face to face to each other.

Roe glances quickly at Babe, “Renée this is is Edward, he’s one of us.”

Babe refrains from making a face at the use of his given name, which Roe is well aware he hates. Renée’s eyes rest on him, friendly but wary and for a moment Babe is a bit tongue-tied. He’s not even sure if she’ll understand his English, besides he has no idea what he should say to her: Sorry for making your town a target for every German artillery unit in Belgium? Thank you for not turning away?

“You’re the new one.”

Babe nods, puts two and two together. “Thank you,” he holds up his hands to show the mittens on them, “are they yours?”

She waves him off, “My friend’s,” she’s about to say more, but just then an urgent shout comes from deeper in the building. Renée and Gene both dash off to help, Babe follows more slowly, unsure if he wants to see the scene in front of him more clearly.

A kid’s wound is bleeding through his bandages and from the expressions on their faces it’s going badly. Babe lingers, watching them fight for his life and horribly aware how little use he is here. Someone pushes past him, a little beneath his chin, and Babe steps aside to make room for another woman in a nurse’s white apron. Like Renée, hers is bloodstained and grimy from kneeling on the floor. Her skin is dark brown, a black nurse working in a ward of white soldiers.

She meets him stare for stare, standing very straight, “Are you injured? We don’t have room for walking wounded here, this place is for the worst hit only.”

Babe shakes himself out of his daze, “No, ma’am. I’m here with the Doc, our medic, getting supplies for the boys out in the woods.” She nods and makes to hurry away but he blurts out, “Are you-” he waves his gloved hand, but she seems to understand the vague gesture alright.

She looks down at her hands, the skin on her palms is lighter than on her arms and fingers, the nail beds are swollen and bleeding. There are dark shadows like bruises beneath her eyes, she looks like Gene and Renée, giving everything she has to help.

“I’m still just me, just Augusta.”

“I’m Babe,” her mouth puckers with amusement and he realizes too late that the nickname might sound very odd to someone who’s used to speaking French.

“How did you end up here?” He gestures around them at the low, vaulted ceiling and the crowded stretchers.

“They asked the local hospital who would volunteer. I came.” It’s the simplest of explanations, they asked so I came, easy as that.

“They’re lucky to have you.” Babe says, and sees a flicker of derision in her gaze.

“It puts some of them in a bind, do they let themselves be tended by one of the blessés or by a colored woman? In war sacrifices must be made by all.” She shakes her head,just then there’s a hoarse scream and a clang like a steel helmet being thrown on a stone floor. The nurse freezes in her tracks, and Babe jumps a little although he tries to pretend he doesn’t. He looks across the room, and sees Gene bareheaded, Renée staring up at him her expression filled with shock and grief.

“Go wait upstairs,” the nurse says sharply, and it doesn’t cross his mind to disobey her. He flees up out of the cellar, grateful for the cold air that’s not stale with sweat and dried blood. Night is falling and the sky hangs low, heavy with grey cloud. The first snowflakes are starting to drift down when Gene and Renée join him. Roe has his helmet tucked under his arm.

“Who was it?” Babe whispers, almost too afraid to hear the answer.

“I don’t know,” Gene looks at him then away again, his jaw clenching as he sees Babe’s expression “I really don’t know, Babe. It wasn’t anyone of ours.”

A snap makes them both look over at Renée who’s sitting on an empty crate, breaking pieces off a chocolate bar. She offers a piece to Babe as he sits across from her, her fingers have blood on them but he’s far past caring about that. He breaks off a corner with his teeth, letting it melt on his tongue. He can’t remember the last time he tasted something so sweet, the sugariness is almost shocking, anchoring him in a way he hasn’t been since the sparks first came.

“You have a different kind then us, don’t you?” It takes him a moment to realize she’s talking to him, then he almost chokes on his chocolate.

“Heat and light, yeah,” he looks down at his hands, still covered in her mittens.

“May I see? I’ve only met people like us,” she gestures at her and Roe. Babe hesitates, looking around to make sure no one’s there to see before slipping of the mittens and holding his hands out for her to see. Sparks travel along the lines of his palms and wrap around his fingers, he thinks their glow is still dimmed from the effort yesterday, but Renée leans forward to look.

“They don’t hurt?”

“No,” he makes a gesture like washing his hands, collecting the sparks in his palms and rolling them into a ball like lint, and holds it out to her, “here.” She reaches out and he pours it into her hands.

For a moment she sits there, the sparks cradled in the palm of her hands. Gene scoots closer to see so they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder, their faces pale and ghostly in the silvery light.

“It’s so warm,” she breathes.

“I don’t know how long it’ll keep,” he gestures vaguely at it, “but you might be able to use it.” He mimes sticking it in his pocket and prays it won’t burn a hole in her coat, “It’s cold in that basement.”

“It is, thank you, Edward.”

Babe sighs through his nose, “It’s Babe, I don’t know why Gene insists on using Edward.”

“Clever,” Roe nods at the sparks, “did you know you could do that?” He’s smiling and the skin around his eyes is softened, but Babe knows him well enough now to know it’s more complicated than that. It’s a pattern he’s beginning to recognize in Roe- emotions tangled up in an unreleasable knot.

He shrugs, “It’s better than melting the snow with them.”

“You can heat my coffee up next time if you want. Sure beats using a camp stove.” 

Babe sticks his tongue out and Renée snorts. “I wish I could do more,” he says, “it doesn’t seem fair that you two have almost nothing left and when I have so much I can’t use.”

“I couldn’t even share magic with Renée, and our powers are much more similar,” Roe shrugs, “perhaps we’re meant to bear these burdens alone.”

“I don’t believe that,” Renée says quietly, “I think you found me for a reason, just like you found Ed- Babe.”

Babe stares down at his hands, scrubbed clean of sparks for the moment. He remembers the whip of fire lashing out from his palms, the searing heat on his face as it turned green wood to coal and melted the barrel of the machine gun. He’s not like them, doesn’t deserve Renée’s hope or Gene’s fortitude. His touch brings death, not healing like their’s.

He clenches his fists together without realizing, nails biting into his palms. To his surprise, Gene reaches over and loosens them, fingers twining briefly around his before letting go. “It’s always like this. You know how many guys have died under my hands since we came out here? Sometimes it feels more like I’m working in a butcher’s shop than as a medic, you always feel closer to the harm you bring than the good. And you do bring good, Babe.”

“Not that much,” but Gene’s words are still comforting, and he can’t help the slow smile spreading over his face as he realizes Gene called him by his nickname for once. He takes another bite of chocolate, remembers what he wanted to ask Renée.

“The other nurse, Augusta, where is she from?”

“You met her? From the Congo, I think, about twenty years ago. They asked for volunteers at the hospital close to here where she worked and she came. She has training, not like me.” She makes a face, as if she’s letting people down by that.

Babe tries to think about the journey that must have been, he only has a vague idea of where the Congo is, or how you get from there to Belgium. He imagines her on a steamer churning slowly from Casablanca to Lisbon and then, because that’s the only way he knows, he imagines her making her way up along the Normandy coastline. Maybe the waves still battered the shore, and maybe the sky was blue and there were only drifting clouds instead of barrage balloons. Maybe the rain lashed down on them like it did all through this summer, but they didn’t worry about mines on the seabed, and the beaches were free of barbed wire and concrete bunkers.

Strange to think of Augusta in peace time, traveling the same roads the paratroopers fought along over so many months, as if her footsteps were almost lighting the path for them. Is that a kind of calling, too, that brings someone from so far, that leads them into the center of danger without any reason other than that they can help?A jeep roars up, and just like that they’re breathing space is over. They all stand up, but before they can separate Renée stands on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.

“Thank you,” she whispers and turns to put her arms around Roe.

He hugs her briefly across the shoulders, “I’ll be seeing you.”

They watch as she hurries across the muddy courtyard to help another wounded man into the church. Roe’s eyes track her inside then he sighs, squaring his shoulders.

“Back to where we’re needed?” Babe suggests and they jog over to climb into the jeep. He watches the church spire until a bend in the road hides it behind the trees. Ahead of them is bitter cold and more hardship for the men he calls brothers, deaths neither of them will be able to prevent, but somehow it’s easier to face it now, knowing that somewhere behind them are people like Renée and Augusta, who share mittens and chocolate and small scraps of kindness, who help because they can.


End file.
